Will cupped her elbow as if to pull her out of the room.
I stepped forward and shouted, "Wait. You're not leaving. I'm not being responsible for Nathan's death."
Mrs. Hendrickson seethed and reached toward me.
I attempted to step to my left, assuming she'd aim for my neck again, but she wrapped her hands around the skillet, above mine. It became a tug-of-war match over a skillet. I knew she'd use it to kill me, if she got her hands on it fully. I refused to let go, but it was getting heavier by the second.
She was pulling up. I had to just try to hold my position. If I pulled down, she would have it. The handle was short, not more than four inches.
"Grandmother," Will said and grabbed her bicep.
She flinched and jerked her arms.
The skillet slipped up out of my grip and smacked Will in the forehead. He staggered back and crashed into the wall.
"Will," she shouted and dropped the skillet to the floor. She rushed to his side.
He slid down to the floor, into a sitting position. His eyes were open, and he reached up to his head. His forehead was red, but the skin was still intact. It had to hurt like heck though.
She knelt beside him and started crying. Big moaning sobs wracked her body.
I snatched up the skillet and stepped around them so I was in the doorway to the living room. "Can you hear us?"
He nodded and winced.
I rubbed his back. "Good. Don't die on me. Where's your phone?"
I assumed mine was dead and hoped he wasn't stupid enough to refuse again.
"Out in my car." The words came out garbled, but I got the gist.
Not taking any chances, I took the skillet with me and ran outside, which wasn't too fast since my brain still felt slightly oxygen deprived.
Will was parked in front of the next house. I opened the passenger door, leaned across the seat, and searched the console. His phone had been charging on the dash. I snatched it and hoped there was enough juice for one call. I got out of the car and pushed the Home button. The screen lit up. It had a 20 percent charge. That would work.
Headlights blinded me. A car pulled up and parked before Will's, right in front of my house. It was Jared. He stepped out of his car. "Riley?"
A rush of relief washed over every muscle in my body. The skillet fell again, and my knees grew weak. His footsteps pounded on the concrete as I slipped to the ground.
I handed the change to Elizabeth Ashby and smiled as she trotted out of the bakery with a muffin in one hand and a notepad in the other. Amber took the next order, and I stepped into the kitchen. I had a tray of vanilla cupcakes that needed frosting. I spooned lemon curd into a plastic piping bag and started filling the holes I'd created before the mini rush.
It had been a week since the police had arrested Mrs. Hendrickson. A week of police questions, reporters lined up outside, gossips' whispers, and family worry. Grams rarely left my side. The same for Tara and Jared.
Will had been fine. Luckily, he had been only slightly concussed and hadn't suffered from a skull fracture. Thank goodness.
It was during this past week that I realized what I'd been missing. Like Max had said, it was what I didn't see that was important. When Tara and I had watched the bank footage, we'd never seen Mrs. Hendrickson arrive at the bakery the day Nathan died. I had assumed she showed up as everyone was leaving, but she had been there, smack in the middle of the crowd, the whole time. And when Mallory had been naming everyone she saw, she had said, "The Cinnamon Sugar Bakery employees." That had included Amber, Mrs. Hendrickson, and me. Mallory never knew Mrs. Hendrickson shouldn't have been there. The answer had been in front of my face the entire time, and in hindsight, it was so obvious.
We'd also learned that the fake e-mail address, [email protected], had been in reference to the cookie incident years ago. Chocolate chip cookie on April fifth. And yes, Mrs. Hendrickson sent the e-mails out from the library and had to use her library card to access the computer. If the police had looked into the e-mail, they would've learned this right away.
I tried to not beat myself up over it though. All of us had been out of our element. I wouldn't make that mistake again. Not that I planned on ever being associated with another murder.
Jared and I had finally talked about the kiss. We planned to take it slow and see if there was something between us. And we promised that we wouldn't allow it to ruin our friendship.
The bell above the door rang several times, but I ignored it. Amber could handle it, and if she couldn't, she'd call for me. Business had gotten back to its normal flow on weekdays, but weekends were still super crazy. I'd had to hire three part-time workers, and Amber got promoted to manager. She now worked Karen's shift, and I stayed until three. I didn't mind the extra hours now that I didn't have a murder hanging over my head.
The kitchen door whooshed open. Did she need my help already?
I started to turn, and someone pressed down on my shoulders. I flinched, still not thrilled about people surprising me. The scent of laundry filled my senses, and I smiled. It was Jared. He swiped his finger along the rim of the mixer bowl, catching a dollop of blueberry frosting that didn't want to hang out below with the rest. It was a new recipe I was trying. I just loved the tartness of blueberries and lemons with the sweetness of the cupcakes.
"How are you today?" he asked.
I gave him a big smile. "Better now that I'm back in the kitchen." I loved this town, but the more I worked here, the more I realized I really preferred hanging with the flour and sugar.
The night the police took Mrs. Hendrickson away, Jared had gone with me to the police station to answer a bunch of questions. I'd decided then that I didn't want to stay with him until Grams and I were back on our feet. It was too sudden, and too much had happened. We needed to take things slowly, and living together, even if just for a bit, wasn't slow. I'd spent that night back at Tara's.
Max had visited the next day, and I'd learned that he had called the cops on Holly too. He hadn't pressed charges as long as she and Gloria promised to get out of town and stay gone. They did. And he offered for Grams and me to stay at Nathan's. It was a huge place. He certainly had the room. We'd accepted. It was nice getting to know him better, and Tara visited daily. She wouldn't admit it, but I believed her crush was more than just a physical thing, but time would tell. They had a date tonight. She was giving him tango lessons.
He ended up telling me that the reason he'd hung out in front of Doc's was because he'd found something in Nathan's belongings that I needed to know. He hadn't told me right away because he wasn't sure if I'd needed anything more on my plate. So he'd waited outside, wondering if he should get me, and suddenly I came running back out of Doc Eckhardt's.
As it turned out, Nathan was sterile. Max had found the paperwork from his uncle's doctor. Nathan had learned about it a couple of years after the car accident. There was no way I was Nathan Dearborn's child, yet even though he knew this, he'd still left me part of his estate. I didn't understand why. Maybe it was guilt money because of the accident, but it definitely created a warm spot in my heart for him. I was also still furious for what he did to my family though. And I had the rest of my life to get through the jumbled emotions.
"You're quiet today," Jared said.
"Sorry. I have a lot on my mind."
He reached around me and gently took the bag from my hands. He laid it on the counter and turned me toward him. "It's okay if you're not back to your old self yet. It's only been a week."
I nodded, but it wasn't that at all. I hadn't felt so hopeful in a long time. There were no obstacles in front of me, and I had the best set of family and friends. Well, there was the lingering Erin problem, but that was Jared's headache, not mine. And there was Will. He and I no longer knew how to act around one another. I didn't have to figure it out today though.
"I'm great. Really. I have you. How can I not be?" I stood on my tiptoes and pressed my lips to his cheek.
Yes, everything was fine in my world. Mrs. Hendrickson had been right about one thing. I had my family, friends, my health, and this awesome bakery.
What more could a girl want?
* * * * *
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* * * * *
Jennifer Fischetto is the
National Bestselling Author
of the Jamie Bond Mysteries.
Unbreakable Bond
, her adult debut novel, has received a National Reader's Choice award nomination. She writes dead bodies for ages 13 to six-feet-under. When not writing, she enjoys reading, cooking, singing (off-key), and watching an obscene amount of TV. She also adores trees, thunderstorms, and horror movies—the scarier the better. She lives in Western Mass with her family and is currently working on her next project.
To learn more about Jennifer Fischetto, visit her online at:
http://jenniferfischetto.com
Elizabeth Ashby was born and raised in Danger Cove and now uses her literary talent to tell stories about the town she knows and loves. Ms. Ashby has penned several Danger Cove Mysteries, which are published by Gemma Halliday Publishing. While she does admit to taking some poetic license in her storytelling, she loves to incorporate the real people and places of her hometown into her stories. She says anyone who visits Danger Cove is fair game for her poisoned pen, so tourists beware! When she's not writing, Ms. Ashby enjoys gardening, taking long walks along the Pacific coastline, and curling up with a hot cup of tea, her cat, Sherlock, and a thrilling novel.
* * * * *
Danger Cove Bakery Mysteries
:
Death by Scones
Dead by the Numbers Mysteries
:
One Garish Ghost & Blueberry Peach Jam
A Christmas Ghost & Zero Regrets
Jamie Bond Mysteries
:
Unbreakable Bond
Secret Bond
Lethal Bond
Disturbia Diaries:
I Spy Dead People
We Are The Weirdos
Secret of the Painted Lady
Murder and Mai Tais
Death by Scones
Four-Patch of Trouble
Deadly Dye and a Soy Chai
Killer Closet Case
* * * * *
of the next
DANGER COVE MYSTERY
FOUR-PATCH OF TROUBLE
A DANGER COVE QUILTING MYSTERY
BY
GIN JONES & ELIZABETH ASHBY
CHAPTER ONE
A year after I quit practicing law, I was still arriving early for meetings as if I needed the time to complete last-minute, on-site preparations for a trial. Today, all I had to do was introduce myself to the director of the Danger Cove Historical Museum, exchange business cards, and be personable enough that he'd hire me to appraise the quilts they were planning to acquire. I could do that in my sleep. And yet, I'd arrived twenty minutes ahead of schedule.
Rather than lurk impatiently outside the director's office, I opted to go back down to the first floor and wander through the exhibits. I'd only moved to Danger Cove a few months ago, and this was my first visit to the museum. Its collections were housed in a massive, two-story brick building that was itself of historical interest, having been built in 1898. The museum's mission was to preserve local history, with a particular emphasis on the Danger Cove Lighthouse, maritime artifacts, and pioneer settlements.
Despite the building's age and size, the exhibits were fairly sparse, and I managed to visit all of the public spaces, not counting the tiny gift shop, and still make it back to the suite marked "Gil Torres, Museum Director" with a couple of minutes to spare.
In the waiting area, six otherwise unremarkable wood chairs had had the seats and backs upholstered with the museum's signature textile, a traditional paisley in red, white and blue, reproduced from a quilt in its collection. The chairs flanked a small table nestled in the corner of the room, where there was a collection of brochures and flyers. The walls were similarly decorated with promotional materials, most of them posters for the annual quilt show jointly sponsored by the museum and the Danger Cove Quilt Guild.
I picked up a brochure just as a petite blonde woman breezed into the room. Except for the hair color and short height, the woman could have been me twelve months ago. She was about my age, maybe a year or two older than my thirty-eight and she wore a pale linen suit much like mine, perfectly tailored, and in a style conservative enough to impress a jury. She was also in an obvious rush, radiating tension, something I'd been all too familiar with a year ago. Unlike me, though, she had perfectly smooth skin, somehow managing to avoid even the beginning signs of the deep age lines that stress was prematurely carving on my forehead. She was also wearing spike-heeled sandals that were a great deal more flattering than my walking shoes, but now that I was no longer able to drive and had to walk everywhere, I needed to be practical about my footwear.